


to get to you (it's all for you)

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Canon, Rescue Missions, Senses, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 10:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18689428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Croc doesn't know anything is wrong.Feels like maybe he should have, after. Seems stupid that he hadn't—that he'd just been sitting there not knowing.But he doesn't. Not until he looks up and sees Flag's face.





	to get to you (it's all for you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wallflowering](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowering/gifts).



> ♥
> 
>  
> 
> A new entry in the list of things I didn't expect to put in an author's note: I will never be able to listen to Selena Gomez again without thinking of Killer Croc. /o\ :D

 

 

Croc doesn't know anything is wrong.

Feels like maybe he should have, after. Seems stupid that he hadn't—that he'd just been sitting there not knowing.

But he doesn't. Not until he looks up and sees Flag's face.

He hears Flag coming. Smells him, too. Always easy to tell when somebody's come down to Croc's cell from outside. Belle Reve's all closed up, air stale. Everybody starts to smell the same.

And he figures it's a mission or something. Doesn't look up, just waits for Flag to start talking.

Except it takes kind of a long time. And when Flag does clear his throat and open his mouth, "Hey, Croc. I, uh. Look, I figured somebody should tell you, and it ought to be me," is what comes out of it.

Doesn't sound like the start of a mission rundown, and Croc's not Deadshot; Flag doesn't come see him just to _chat_.

Croc scowls at the wall, annoyed. And then he looks over and sees Flag's face, and—

Well. That's when he knows.

He moves, quick, up against the bars so fast Flag jerks back a step. Takes him a second to realize he's showing teeth, and another second to close his lips back over them, to try and make nice. At least for long enough to get Flag to tell him whatever the fuck is up.

"What," he says, real flat.

He doesn't know what to call the look on Flag's face right then. Not scared—mad, maybe. Mad, sad.

Guilty.

"It's GQ," Flag says, and then explains.

Croc stares at him for a second, when he's done.

"MIA," he repeats, and can't help himself, slams his hands into the bars again because he can't not. Has to do something, make some goddamn noise. "The fuck are you doing telling me about it? Go _get_ him."

Flag looks away; his jaw's all tight. "Croc," he says, and then heaves out a sigh, reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. "Look, I want to. I do."

"Who's stopping you?" Croc growls, because fuck Flag—is he locked up? Is he behind bars? If he starts talking up how there's motherfucking _rules_ , how he can't just do whatever he wants, Croc's going to rip his fucking head off.

"Man, listen to me," Flag snaps. "You are not the only one who gives a shit about GQ. Okay? But this is—we're talking a search area half the size of Texas, and it is _crawling_ with this dipshit's private army. That's why we sent him in alone in the first place. Couldn't afford the shootout if we drew attention with a team."

Croc snarls at him, digs his toes into the concrete under his feet and imagines it's Flag's fucking face. So he came all this way just to feed Croc this bullshit? Just to explain how GQ was in trouble and he was doing fuck-all?

Except—no, Croc thinks, and narrows his eyes. Flag does dumb shit sometimes, but he's not actually stupid. "That all?" he says aloud.

And Flag meets his eyes and then looks away again, curses and scrubs his hands across his face. "God, I can't believe I'm even _thinking_ about this," he says, half into his palms.

So he didn't just come here to talk.

"I don't even know where you'd start—"

"You ain't me," Croc says. "Get me to the drop point."

Flag rubs his mouth, shakes his head; but it's not like a "no", more like he's thinking, waking himself up, trying to make himself see sense.

Except sense isn't going to get Croc out of this goddamn cell.

"Flag," Croc says. "Get me to the drop point. I'll find him."

Flag looks at him. Croc looks back. They stare at each other for a minute, like that. Croc half wants to reach through the bars and grab him, shake him until some words fall out—because he can't tell what the fuck Flag might be thinking, can't read it off that narrow pointy face of his. Can't figure out what else to say or do, how to tip the scale.

Come on, Croc thinks. Come _on_ —

"Jesus Christ," Flag mutters, with another sigh. "Waller is going to put her foot up my ass so far her shoe's going to come out my nose."

"You'll live," Croc growls.

Flag huffs out a laugh. "Right," he says. "If she's feeling generous." Then he fixes Croc with a steady look, and he's not laughing anymore. "You get that this is serious, right? I break you out of here and it's my neck on the line if you do something stupid. It's my neck on the line if you try to run—"

"My neck too," Croc bites out. And he means it. For all he knows, Flag's going to give him an hour and then go straight to Waller, double-tap that shiny tablet of hers and blow Croc's head to smithereens.

Flag blinks at him, and then seems to pick up what he put down. "Why the hell would I go to this kind of trouble just to get you killed?"

"Don't know," Croc says. Like he's ever known what the fuck people are thinking. "Why would I talk you into it with GQ in deep shit out there and then fuck around?"

"Point taken," Flag says after a second, watching him, weird look on his face that makes Croc's scales itch—but then he reaches for the cell door after all.

He catches Croc's arm on the way out, jerks it behind him. Croc rounds on him, teeth bared; but this time Flag doesn't flinch.

Mostly.

"We've got to make this look good," he says. "Okay? I can't just be walking out of here with you to take you to Sunday brunch. You're still a prisoner, until I get you in a chopper."

Croc hisses a little. Just frustration. He doesn't like people. Doesn't like them touching him, grabbing him. Never has, and he hasn't started liking it _better_ in Belle Reve.

But the sooner they get out of here, and the cleaner they can do it, the faster he can get to GQ.

"Okay," he says, and lets Flag pull his wrists behind him, shackle them there.

"Okay," Flag repeats, and then they walk out.

 

 

It's a long ride.

Even longer than it feels, probably, because the drop point turns out to be on the wrong side of a weird wobbly circle of light.

"The fuck," Croc says.

"Yeah," Flag shouts back grimly, over the noise of the chopper. "That's how I know GQ's still in there—got him kitted out with an anchor to hold the portal open. Some fucking pocket dimension or some shit. This asshole's running way too big an operation to keep under wraps without warping space-time. That's how the intel division figured out something was up."

They pop through—and that's what it feels like, funny stretched-out resistance making Croc grit his teeth, air pressure climbing, and then suddenly it gives and they're somewhere else.

Flag brings the chopper swinging low over the trees. Big and old, older than anything that _ought_ to be a chopper flight from HQ, even a long one. Huge craggy limbs, hanging moss, warmth and wet practically rising off it all, thick enough to taste.

Croc can guess just looking at the lay of the land ahead of them where the drop point must have been: a low rise, higher ground than what's around it but lots of cover. And just enough room between the trees for a chopper this size to get at it.

And sure enough, Flag heads right for it.

"That's it up ahead," he says over his shoulder, eyes front. "I know you don't need some big speech. Don't want one, either. But—good luck, all right? Still got that beacon?"

"Yeah," Croc says. Transmitter's slung around his chest on a strap, so he can keep both hands free. Smart of Flag to think of it, even if Croc's not planning to tell him so.

"Hit it when you find him," Flag says, "and I'll come get you." He angles them around a real big trunk, and then shakes his head, laughs, quick flash of teeth tossed back and sideways. "Man, these fuckers aren't even going to know what hit them."

"Nope," Croc agrees.

And then he heaves the chopper bay door open one-handed, and jumps out the side while Flag's still shouting at him.

No point waiting. He knows where he's going. And if there's anywhere in the world he's a perfect goddamn fit for, it's a fucking swamp.

He drops into lukewarm water, thick and murky, halfway up his chest. Fucking beacon better be able to handle it. He crouches, lowers his face into the water and brings his feet up off the soft bottom—drifts for a second, nothing but his eyes and head showing above the waterline, and waits.

The chopper roars over, but Flag doesn't try to follow him down. The noise fades fast after that, swallowed up. And it's weird—silent. Shouldn't be possible, all these trees and no birds, no bugs.

Fucking magic.

But Croc waits and nothing moves, no—private army or what the fuck ever bursting out. So he's in the clear, at least for now.

Drop point's easy to find. And Croc had meant it, when he'd said it was all he'd need. Fucking mammals always touching fucking everything, all that warm soft skin _sweating_ everywhere. Weird and squishy and smelly, all of them.

But right now, that's good. Right now, that's what's making it easy to tell GQ was here.

Croc catches his scent almost right away. Just a trace, dim, faint; within two seconds he's lost it again. But then he gets closer, closer, and yeah, right here. Right here, this is where GQ's boots hit ground. The soil's too soft to hold a print, but it doesn't matter. Scents stick the best in warm wet air, and Croc can smell him: a little salt, a tang like metal. That meaty half-sour smell of _body_. Hint of old aftershave—day or two at least, but GQ never gets it all off when he showers. The stuff clings on the hot soft skin just under his ears, down at the hollow of his throat, every damn time.

Croc breathes it in deep. Feels something under his skin settle, just knowing GQ really was here after all.

Stupid, when fuck knows what's happened to him since. But Croc stays crouched there in the mud anyway for a lot longer than he should before he can make himself keep going.

 

 

Trail weaves all over. GQ was trying to stick to cover, trying to keep his head down. Working his way closer to whatever base or camp Waller wanted intel on, a bit at a time, slow, circling. Making himself hard to see, hard to follow. Hard to catch.

But they caught him.

Croc doesn't even think about what he's smelling, at first. Just gets a whiff and jerks his head back with a hiss. He's been trying hard, is all. Closing his eyes, sunk deep in himself. Breathing in every bit of GQ he can find.

So the sudden sharp stink he's gotten instead is a nasty surprise. But it's familiar, too. The burn of it, hint of smoke mixed in, ozone or some shit.

Somebody fired a gun.

Just once, right here. Few strides further on, though, it gets stronger.

Past that, there's blood.

Only a little, at first. Drips on the leaves. A smear. Crease, Croc decides.

Then more. Splashed, sticky and half-dried, on the massive trunk of one of the trees—but it doesn't smell right, Croc thinks.

Then he finds the body.

Not GQ's. One, slumped half out of the water; and Croc tilts his head and starts to turn, a slow circle, and there are two more toppled over limp past the next mass of fat mossy roots.

GQ must have killed them. Croc doesn't know what to call the thing in his chest right then. He wants to bare his teeth at the bodies, rub it in, even if nobody's ever going to know he did it. Feels smug, fierce, glad, that GQ didn't go cheap—that it cost these motherfuckers something, that he made them work for it.

Trail thins a little after that. Muddled, too. Other scents, other people. But GQ's isn't gone, not quite. And there's no more bodies.

They took him. They _took_ him.

Croc snarls, hands bunching into fists, and breaks into a run.

 

 

If Flag had come, there'd be a plan. Croc would have to wait—only kill people when Flag said to, and not too many of them or anything, and stop when Flag said stop.

But Flag's not here. And when Croc splashes out into a clear space between the trees, little rise of ground and some kind of base camp rigged up, thirty guys with semi-automatics, he doesn't even slow down.

Shadow of something starting to loom over the trees, in the distance. Big stone place, fort or castle or something. Probably where these stupid fucks were headed. But the fake magic sky behind the fake magic trees is dimming with fake magic night. And they thought they'd get here, dragging GQ, bleeding out, and take a fucking break.

Croc growls, big loud rumble through his chest, so they know he's coming. Wants it—wants them knowing, shooting, trying to stop him. Wants them learning they can't.

Because they can't.

The bullets patter off him. He'll have a bruise, maybe. He grabs one of them in each hand, breaks their backs, throws them off to one side—out of his way. Cracks a neck for one, a skull for the next, then that big fucking bone in the thigh; digs his fingers in, ignores the screaming, till he tears something important and the blood really starts to spurt. Done for, Croc thinks, satisfied, and lets that guy drop. He can bleed out on his own time.

A couple of them run. Crashing through swamp like that, Croc could catch them. Wouldn't even have to fight. Just drag them down into the water, hold them there. Let them choke on three fucking feet of muck.

But it's the dozen or so left between him and the far side of the camp that matter. He can't smell a goddamn thing, not now—not with all these guns going off, blood, overwhelming stink of death and heat and metal. But he can still see, and there's some kind of deeper shadow back there.

Besides, wouldn't be getting between him and whatever if there weren't a whatever. If there weren't something to get between him and. Got to be GQ. What else do these shitheads even have that matters at all? Got to be GQ.

They've figured out the guns aren't helping. Some of them are still shooting anyway, but one of them comes at him with a big heavy machete.

He catches the first swing on his forearm, leans into the guy's face and smiles with all his teeth. And yeah, okay, he gets something out of the way the guy's eyes get wide, before he slams his free fist into the guy's head and something snaps.

But it turns out that wasn't the only one of these fuckers who decided to get creative.

Croc grits his teeth and doesn't scream. Distraction, he thinks. Maybe they knew the machete wouldn't work.

And the guy who got around behind him while he was busy just shoved—

He looks down, tilts his head; gets a hand on it.

Just shoved a harpoon through him.

He turns around. Wasn't a shove after all. Harpoon gun, that's what it was. Didn't make a noise Croc recognized, under all the gunfire.

No birds, no bugs. But maybe this weird-ass swamp's not as empty as he thought, if they're hauling that thing around.

He charges the guy, knocks the gun up—next harpoon goes into a tree, and then he's got it in his hands, bending it till the metal shrieks. Swings it like a bat, and knocks the shithead thirty feet back and into the water.

He likes it, he decides. Likes the weight of it. Too bad they're almost all dead; when he's done with them he's not going to need it anymore.

He finishes the last handful off quick, now that he's the one with the harpoon gun and all. And then it's just him and that darker patch of shadow.

Pit, he sees, as he gets up to the edge of it. And down there, huddled in a half-foot of bloody water, is GQ.

Shot him—hit him, too. Blood at his cheek, his mouth, one side of his head, that didn't come from the bullet wound in his side, or the one in his shoulder. Slice running up his scalp, deep, oozing, hair wet and matted with it.

Croc crouches to jump down, and has to stop there on the lip for a second, digging his fingertips into the mud, at the jolt it puts through him. Right. That fucking harpoon. Should've remembered it was there, in him. Just doesn't seem to matter much, somehow.

He jumps. And then he stops. Spent all this fucking time and effort getting here, and now that GQ's right the fuck in front of him, he can't—he doesn't know what to do.

It's hurting people he's good at. Nothing else anybody's ever wanted from him.

But he's all GQ's got.

He tries to figure out where to grab that might not hurt. Gets an arm under GQ's back, bend of his knees; and then he moves and GQ jerks and groans, and shit, he fucked it up already.

"GQ," he says, low, and it's—it's hard to say, jaw seized up, teeth gritted. Hadn't known he was doing it, but he was. "Got to move you."

GQ groans again, rolls his head side to side, eyes all scrunched up. "You," he gasps out, and then has to stop, swallow, breathe again. "You've got t' be—fucking kidding me."

"Got to get you out of here," Croc insists. And fuck, the fucking beacon. He twists, grabs at it, and it's still there after all; harpoon didn't catch it on the way in, nothing crushed it.

He thumbs it, presses down hard, and a little blue light comes on. And then the casing cracks. Croc lets it go fast, and maybe he fucked it up but the light doesn't go out. Might be okay.

"Not what I meant," GQ says, thin, reedy. "Not what I—come on, get the—get the fuck over—"

Croc reaches for him again. Tries to be gentler about it, and either it works or GQ's ready for it this time, because he manages to heave GQ up—and keep him clear of the sticky-wet harpoon head jabbing out of Croc's gut—without GQ making a sound.

"Got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters again, blinking up at Croc. His face is pale and his eyes look huge in it. "Of course it's you. Jesus."

He reaches up with one muddy bloody hand, shaking all over, and touches Croc's cheek.

"Cut that out," Croc says. "Hold still," but GQ's not listening to him. GQ's a thousand miles away, looking right through him; but then he blinks once, twice, and he's back.

"This 's—this isn't real," he slurs out, matter-of-fact. "But just in case it is—"

"GQ," Croc says.

They don't have time for this. GQ doesn't have time for this.

But he doesn't turn his face away from GQ's hand. GQ's pulling on him—trying to. Tugging him down. For a second it's like—it's like Croc can't even remember how to bend, how to let himself be moved.

But he does. And GQ kisses him.

It's weird. Awkward, clumsy. GQ tastes sour and bloody, and he's still breathing hard, half-gasping into Croc's mouth, rasp in it Croc doesn't like.

"Just in case," GQ says again, mumbled, against Croc's cheek. "Just in case 'm not already dead. I just wanted to—once, that's all. Y'wouldn't hold that against me. 'Bout to die, after all. That'd be—that'd be petty, y'know, holdin' a thing like that 'gainst a dead guy—"

"Not going," Croc grinds out, "to fucking die."

"Right," GQ agrees, but it's—he doesn't _mean_ it, Croc thinks, in a weird hot burst of anger. He doesn't mean it, not the way he's looking at Croc. And then it's—he sucks in another one of those reedy uneven breaths, and his hand just sort of falls away from Croc's face. His eyes are still open, but he isn't looking at Croc anymore. Past him, up at the fake magic sky going dark, starless.

"Fuck you," Croc tells him, " _fuck you_ ," and that's when he hears the distant hum of a chopper.

 

 

The worst thing about it all isn't the swamp. It's not the swamp, it's not the muck, it's not killing two dozen guys because they're in the way. It's not the endless goddamn chopper ride back to HQ, listening to that awful thing GQ's lung's doing. It's not even the motherfucking harpoon.

It's how he's got to set GQ down.

It's hard. He doesn't want to. It was—he went down deep in himself again, like he did when he was out there looking, searching, dragging in every last bit of GQ's scent he could find. Except GQ's right in front of him. Right in front of him, and still halfway to someplace Croc's never going to be able to find him.

Somebody touches Croc. Touches _GQ_. Just fingertips, brushing GQ's torn uniform, but Croc jerks GQ away from them and snarls, and only realizes after who it is.

"Hey, whoa," Flag says, hands out, real still. "Back with us?"

Croc bares his teeth and doesn't answer.

"You have to put him down. Right here, okay? Right here." Flag gestures toward the clean white medbay bed. "They'll look him over, they'll do whatever needs doing. He's going to be okay—"

Bullshit, Croc thinks. Bullshit. You didn't see his fucking face.

"—but you _have_ to put him down."

Croc does it.

Sort of. It feels a little better, hunching over GQ that way, half-covering him. Croc lets himself stay there for a second, just because—

Just because he wants to. One time, that's all. Just in case.

"Jesus Christ, is that a _harpoon_?"

"Well, don't fucking touch it," Flag snaps at somebody, gesturing, sharp, in the corner of Croc's eye. "Croc—"

"Yeah," Croc says. "I know."

 

 

Flag takes him back to Belle Reve.

Croc doesn't let them take the harpoon out first. Couldn't stand it, them all crowded around him while he's hurt. Staring at him, prodding him open, cutting him up or whatever. Not now.

He can't say all that, but Flag doesn't make him. Makes them all go away instead, and then he takes Croc back to Belle Reve.

Weird, but it almost feels better, getting locked away. Croc doesn't know what he'd do otherwise, where he'd go, while they—while GQ—

Comfort, sort of, not to have a choice in it.

He crouches down on the wet stone in the lee of the sofa; sheltered, a little. He doesn't get hurt much. But when it happens, he always wants to find somewhere to be away, curled close in on himself, hidden.

Harpoon's still fucking sticking out of him, though.

The guy shot him in the back. Went through the side, little under his ribs. Head made it all the way out the front, and that's probably the worst part anyway. So Croc grabs it by the point, just under, and pulls.

Takes a minute, but it moves. Lights him up, sharp, so he has to stop and close his eyes, breathe through it, before he can keep pulling.

It's only a couple feet, though. Doesn't take too long, in the end.

Once he's got it out, he stares at it, clutched in his hands, blood all over. And he feels it again, that sudden hot anger. Not at GQ. At himself.

All those bullets. The machete. Even this thing—yanked it out of himself just like that, and yeah, it fucking hurts, but he's fine. He can tell already, way it feels. It'll suck for a little while. Not enough to put him down for good.

But GQ—

GQ might _still_ die. Hadn't died when he got shot, hadn't died in that pit. Kept breathing the whole way to the chopper, through the portal, back to HQ—stopped a half-dozen times, but he'd always started again.

Can't be sure he still is, though. Can't be sure he still will. Any old fucking thing could kill him, and everything Croc can do about it got done.

Now all he can do is wait.

 

 

The bleeding stops, sooner or later.

Nobody comes. Not to see him, anyway. They still feed him.

He waits. Turns the TV on for the noise, to have something else to think about.

Doesn't work: he stares at the wall instead of at the screen. He stares at the wall, and he thinks about GQ.

The bad stuff, first. The way he'd looked down there, before Croc had jumped in there with him—lying in the muck alone, waiting to die. And after, too, staring, shaking. Once he'd passed out again, in the chopper, slack-faced, gone away.

The blood had gotten everywhere. Smelled like meat, cut up. Should have made Croc hungry, that smell. But it was like he'd flipped a switch in his head out there, looking—knowing he _had_ to find GQ, that GQ was out there and nobody was coming for him but Croc. Knowing he was GQ's only shot, even if it was a shitty one.

He'd taken all those things GQ smelled like and he'd driven them deep into his bones, seared them there. Had to get to him, no matter where he was, how far. Had to get to him, no matter what was in between.

Not sure he could eat GQ if he tried, anymore.

But he runs out of bad stuff, after a while. Starts catching himself thinking about other things. GQ's hands on him. GQ making fun of him. GQ in the water. Missions, yeah, but—but one time, they'd had a mission called early. Nothing for it but to turn around and swim back out to the extraction point. GQ had wanted to race; had grabbed his ankles, and Croc had kicked him in the face. Thought he'd broken GQ's nose—and he'd bloodied it, for sure, but when he'd dragged GQ up top and yanked his mask off, he'd been laughing. "Serves me right," he'd said, swiping the blood away, grinning. "You got a hell of a kick. Man, I thought you were a mutant _crocodile_ , not a mule—"

Croc had kicked him again, in the shins. Not real hard, though.

GQ wet; GQ dry. GQ quiet, serious, listening to Flag. GQ asleep in the back of a briefing, head tipped against the wall, mouth open. GQ's mouth—

_I just wanted to. Once, that's all._

Once. All the shit GQ's seen and done, and the one thing left he couldn't bear to go without was—

Clang at the bars.

Croc looks up. Ready to bitch Flag out for taking so fucking long to tell him what the hell's happening. _Been_ ready to, for days. But it's not Flag.

It's GQ.

"Hey."

Croc swallows.

"You look like shit," he says.

Because it's true. GQ's got bandages peeking out every which way, big soft shirt, sweats. Huge honking pair of crutches. Stitches in his face, up into his hair where that big cut was—and the hair's shaved down around it, nobody bothering to even it out since. Looks stupid.

GQ grins at him. "Well, I feel like shit," he agrees, "so." He clears his throat, hitches forward a step. Fumbles with something in his hand. Keys.

And then he's—then he's inside. Drags the cell door shut after him, and that's it. Croc can't wait any more, can't stand it.

Good to have something to press GQ up against, anyway. Good that he's got something to lean on. Croc crowds him up against the bars, crutches scraping stone, and GQ's breathless little, "What—?" comes out against the crook of Croc's shoulder.

Ten thousand times better, like this. Not straining for a trace of it off a wet leaf, the slime on the side of a log. Not soaked through with blood or half-covered under rot. Croc tucks his face into the side of GQ's throat and _smells_ him.

Right here. Alive.

"Uh," GQ's saying. "Uh, so I, um. I guess you didn't mind me laying one on you too much, huh?"

Croc makes an absent sound against GQ's throat. Likes how it feels, so he opens his mouth—licks a little, bites down with just the tips of his teeth. Pulse beating right through the thin skin there, close enough to taste.

Alive.

"Okay, I'm—I'm going to go ahead and take that as a 'no, definitely didn't mind'," GQ rasps out, and then he lets the crutches topple over with a clatter—catches Croc's chin with one hand, pushes, twists, and they're kissing again.

Hard, this time. Hard, and GQ's solid and whole under Croc's hands, not bleeding out at all; but it turns out Croc still doesn't want to let go.

GQ eases back enough to say, "Hey," and then kiss him again, quick. "Hey—I'm okay. All right? I'm okay." He rubs a thumb over the line of scales along Croc's jaw, and smiles. "You got me."

"Yeah," Croc says. "I got you."

 

 


End file.
